


A Distant Star

by dragon_with_a_teacup



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Relationship, M/M, Romance, but at what cost, the Antichrist is a plot device
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:35:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22834876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_with_a_teacup/pseuds/dragon_with_a_teacup
Summary: AU, canon divergence. What if Aziraphale, after being discorporated, couldn't escape Heaven in time to help Crowley avert Armageddon?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 35





	A Distant Star

**Author's Note:**

> I... have no excuse for this. I came up with this AU while writing the ["Ghosts" prompt my Ineffable Advent Challenge 2019](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21626617/chapters/52329082) (and at the time I was obsessively listening to Leslie Odom Jr's version of "Winter Song" from which I got the title for this). Unfortunately, I didn't have a chance to write the full story back in December, so here it is now. Sorry in advance for the angst.
> 
> Song lyrics do not belong to me.

The fire roars, consuming the bookshelves and the rugs and the books, Aziraphale’s beloved books. Crowley sees how the pages curl and blacken, hears the creaking of the wooden beams of the building around him, and for perhaps the first time in his life understands what the humans mean by “heartbreak.”

“Bastards!” he screams, tears running down his face. “All of you!”

He cradles his head in his hands. “Aziraphale,” he sobs, but there is no reply.

His departure is a blur. He remembers how the flames licked at his body (he lets them welcome him like an old friend), remembers dropping his sunglasses on the ground (he doesn’t care if people see his eyes and condemn him), remembers picking up the nearest book (he knows how much Aziraphale loves... loved books).

In the pub, he traces his fingers over the cover. One last thing left of Aziraphale. Such a small thing. He doesn’t even recall ever seeing this book before, so he has no memories of the angel to associate with it.

He’s worthless, as ever.

He senses the roiling of the world around him, senses the seams tearing apart. The end will come soon, and part of him realizes he should do something to try to stop it. A more dominant part, the part soaked in grief and smelling of smoke, tells him to stay put. He’s worthless, and it’s hopeless.

A group of men walk by, muttering about the bizarre happenings. Then, a mother and her child of about six years old walk by.

“Mummy, what’s ‘apocalypse’ mean?” the child asks. Her hair is in a neat plait down her back, and she has dimples and a brightness in her eyes.

Crowley stares at her, her question echoing through him, piercing through the anguish with the force and intensity of a laser.

A child her age should not have to know the meaning of that word.

Aziraphale would never permit it.

The door swings shut on the mother and daughter, and Crowley stands.

If he is to get to Tadfield in time, he needs to move, now.

— — —

Crowley finds Shadwell, waterlogged and muttering under his breath, heading toward the door of what Crowley assumes to be his flat. The sight of him, alive when Aziraphale isn’t, infuriates Crowley, and he can’t bring himself to be polite and aloof as usual.

“Oi, Witchfinder!”

Shadwell stops and turns, and his eyes go wide. “Mr. Crowley!”

“What have you learned?” he asks without preamble.

“I… Well, your honor, with all due respect…” But no longer is his voice respectful; now, it is full of fearful suspicion. “How do I know you’re not one of those devils, like the other chap?”

Crowley’s about to ask again, but when he parses the last bit of the sentence, he stops. “What other chap?”

Shadwell raises an eyebrow. “That bookshop pansy. Devil, he was. But I took care of him,” he says with a grin.

Crowley is moving before he can think. He slams Shadwell against the wall, one arm against his neck. Shadwell sputters, and Crowley snarls. “What did you do to him? Did you set that fire?”

“Fire? What—?”

“Oh, you’re lucky, Sergeant Shadwell,” Crowley says. “Lucky I need information from you. Otherwise, I might have to— ngk— well, do something to you for what you… what you did to Aziraphale.” Grief threatens to overcome his composure, but he fights it back and forces out a growl. “Now, what have you learned about Tadfield?”

Shadwell stammers, coughing when Crowley loosens his grip enough for him to speak. He says something about a boy named Adam Young, and an airbase, and about devilish weather, but Crowley stops listening closely after hearing the name of the true Antichrist.

“Oh!” A new voice. “Mr. Shadwell, I thought I heard your voice. But… what’s—?”

Crowley releases Shadwell, who slumps, and strides past the woman who’s opened a nearby door and is staring at them both with wide eyes. Crowley doesn’t care, though; how can he care about anything but the fact that the world Aziraphale loves… loved… is in peril?

Adam Young, whoever that is, better watch his back.

— — —

Aziraphale has been anxious many times throughout his six thousand years on Earth, but never has it been like this. Never has there been such pressure, such need to _do something_ before it’s too late.

“Please, no, you don’t understand—” he protests, struggling against the angels’ grip. He hadn’t seen them approaching, too intent on returning to the planet below. Despite his efforts, they start to drag him backwards.

“I understand perfectly,” the Quartermaster snaps. “You’re insubordinate, Aziraphale.” The angels pull farther from the hovering globe that’s his only way out of this, away from the world… away from Crowley.

“No!” Aziraphale cries. “Get your hands off me! What do you think you’re doing? This is… this is hardly appropriate!”

“Silence,” one of the angels says. They follow the Quartermaster, and bind Aziraphale to a pillar. He recognizes the bonds—formed of celestial magic, unbreakable.

“You’re to stay here,” the Quartermaster orders, “until all this is over.” He gestures around him, and Aziraphale knows he means the end of the world. “Then we’ll deal with you properly.”

Aziraphale pulls against the binding, but to no avail. His mind is racing; he can only think of Adam Young, and Crowley, and Armageddon swallowing everything up.

“Please!” he cries, but the other angels ignore him. Swords are drawn, wings are unfurled, and they depart. Aziraphale is left shaking, staring at the globe across the room. It blurs as he blinks away tears.

“Crowley,” he whispers. “Please be careful, my dear. I’ll come find you.”

— — —

Crowley doesn’t have time to be careful, not when he is dealing with a very irritating run-in with Hastur and is currently driving toward a wall of flames. The noisome demon is shrieking beside him, and Freddie Mercury is belting out thematically appropriate lyrics from the speakers (Crowley can’t even fault the Bentley this time).

_“I’m burnin’ through the sky, yeah…”_

By the time the Bentley is aflame, Hastur is gone, and Crowley hopes he can finally relax. But instead, all the pain he’s been ignoring for the last few minutes rushes back. If it weren’t for the song, he’d feel as if he were back in the bookshop.

He could stop right now, he knows. He could pull over, could let the M-25 burn as he’d planned, could lie on the side of the road and mourn until the world ends.

_“... on a collision course, I am a satellite, I’m out of control…”_

But he knows that isn’t what Aziraphale would have wanted, and as pathetic as it is, Crowley can’t let his Angel down now.

_“Don’t stop me, don’t stop me, don’t stop me, hey hey hey…”_

So Crowley goes on, despite what he’s lost.

— — —

Crowley loses the Bentley next, watches it explode—the second thing he loves, gone up in flames, irretrievable.

Crying would almost be a relief, he thinks, as he slumps to his knees and stares. Crying, screaming, sobbing, something more than this awful numbness that has set in.

Then, a bike bell chimes, and he turns.

Ah, ha.

Antichrist. A good distraction right now.

Somehow, Crowley stands. Perhaps it’s a minor miracle, or perhaps it’s the strength of someone with nothing more to lose.

Inside the airbase, Crowley watches the ragtag bunch of children dispatch the Horsemen. Rather well done, really. If Crowley could feel at the moment, he’d be impressed.

Book Girl shows up, with a geeky mess of a man in tow. They’re talking about something to do with missiles. If Crowley could feel at the moment, he’d be a bit baffled.

“You stole my book!” she declares when she spots him.

Crowley glances down at it, clenched in his hand. It is a piece of Aziraphale, but it somehow seems as foreign to him as being loved had felt when he’d awoken with dark wings. So he returns the book to her. No wonder it didn’t feel like Aziraphale’s; it wasn’t.

Obtaining a memento—he even failed at that.

Crowley watches Gabriel and Beelzebub argue, watches in amazement, in incredulity, as the child—the Antichrist, Adam, so, so small with so, so much potential—balks at the role he’s been assigned. His demeanor touches something in Crowley, and compels him to try. It’s what Aziraphale would want, and besides, when it comes right down to it, Crowley’s never been keen on hurting kids. And how could he hurt a child who looks so _scared_?

So instead, he tries to help. To thwart.

The Plan might be ineffable after all.

He’s about to step forward and say so, but before he can move, something else occurs. Gabriel and Beelzebub depart. The fabric of the universe trembles. The tarmac is unforgiving when Crowley collapses on it. The terrible, awesome, overwhelming force of Satan himself washes over him, and he understands.

They’ve told Adam’s father he’s being stubborn. Well, fuck.

He feels as if he’s dying, and the only thing keeping him from lying down and letting it happen is Adam—and Aziraphale. One, a terrified would-be monster. The other, a ghost.

Crowley knows he needs to come up with something. And so he meets Adam’s confused and frightened gaze, forces himself to his feet again, and flings his hands skyward. He stops time.

On the beach where time doesn’t exist, Adam faces him and takes in his wings, his aspect, his being down to its very core.

“What are you?”

Crowley almost laughs. “Like nothing you’ve ever met.”

Adam’s lip trembles. “And... what am I?”

“You’re the one to end it all.” Might as well not beat around the bush; they’re on a bit of a time crunch.

“What if I... don’t want to?”

Crowley stares at him and sees how earnest he is, how afraid. He sighs. “Adam. Y’know, something I’ve noticed about humans, they’re messy. Like, physically, but also with their emotions. They get angry, violent, and don’t know how to handle it. Sometimes they make a right mess out of taking care of each other most of all. But do I think that means they need to be destroyed...?” Crowley grimaces. “But then, what I think doesn’t matter as much as what _you_ think. You’re the one holding all the cards, and I’m just—we’re _all_ just—playing your game at the moment.”

Adam still looks distraught. “Am... am I really the devil’s son?” he asks.

Crowley holds his gaze. Nods. “Yes.” He doesn’t say he’s sorry. He knows those words would be hollow, never enough.

But Adam shakes his head, even while tears gleam in his eyes. “No, I... I’ve got a dad. A proper one. I don’t want... _Him_.”

Crowley steps forward. His wings unfurl to the fullest, catching the breeze in this in-between land, feeling sensation for perhaps the last time. “Then... cast him out. This is in your hands, Adam. If... if you don’t want to do this, don’t. You’ve got human parents? Good. Great. That makes you human, and that means you always have a choice. So choose.”

He takes Adam’s hand. “Whatever you decide, I’m with you.” What has he got to lose, anyway?

Adam scrutinizes him. Crowley tries not to squirm under his powerful, earth-shattering, human gaze. “Sorry for asking, but... are you some kind of devil?”

Crowley tilts his head, weighing each word before he speaks it. “Nah. An angel, a long time ago. Well, I mean, yeah, I’ve been a demon. But now…” He shakes his head. “This isn’t exactly following the rules, what I’m doing now. Gonna be trouble, but…” He shrugs.

“That’s not right,” Adam says, frowning. “You shouldn’t get in trouble for trying to save the world.”

“Eh, it is what it is. And I think... yeah, I think I’m on my own side now.” He meets and holds Adam’s gaze. “On your side.”

“Okay.” He still looks preoccupied, watching Crowley with concern. Finally, though, he nods. “Okay,” he repeats. “Let’s go.”

Crowley keeps their hands clasped and restarts time.

They’re vaulted back into the real world, and Adam gives Crowley’s hand a squeeze before releasing it and striding forward.

He casts Satan out.

He chooses his real father. He chooses humans. He chooses hope over destruction.

Crowley only stays long enough to feel the tremor that spreads from beneath Adam’s feet and extends across the world. It means that the end is averted, and all the gathered angels and demons he can sense nearby must know it now too.

He needs to get out of here. Beelzebub saw him here, and surely will figure out what his hand in it was. Or not, but it doesn’t matter. Crowley disobeyed, and that’s the important part. He needs to leave before retribution falls upon him.

Adam Young doesn’t notice him striding away, spreading his wings, and taking to the air. Adam Young has eyes only for his father, in the puttering little car, coming for his son.

— — —

Aziraphale is growing more and more tired, tugging at the magic that binds him with increasing desperation. He can perceive the turmoil down below, knows that the world is changing, tilting toward utter destruction. All those people in danger, their lives on the verge of ending too soon. And Crowley is among them, at even more risk because of how he’s turned his back on the demons, how he’s decided to flee. Perhaps he has, or perhaps he’s still on Earth, searching for the Antichrist, trying to stop all this.

Either way, Crowley is in danger, and that more than anything else spurs Aziraphale on. He continues trying to break free, using miracles and metamorphosis and simple physical force to escape, but nothing works.

“I’m sorry, Crowley,” he says.

Then, something changes. A ripple passes through Earth down below, a wave of energy so strong it passes through Heaven, too.

“No!” he cries. It can’t be, please, the world can’t end, not now, not when there’s so much left to be done there, not when there are so many dreams and ambitions and emotions left to fight for, to chase, to experience. That messy world he’s spent so long immersed in cannot simply be swept away, not when there’s so much potential left within its inhabitants.

“No!” he cries again.

Then, he stops. Nothing has crumbled, or exploded, or burned. He hears no signs of battle, feels no fundamental change in the population of Heaven, or of humans. Something has occurred, but it might not be Armageddon.

He shifts, and realizes how easy it is to move now. Whatever power kept him secured has loosened now, as if the force that kept it steady has been distracted. Now, with a bit of maneuvering and miracling, Aziraphale slips free. He straightens, amazed and relieved and concerned in equal measure.

He throws himself at the globe, not caring that he is entirely unprepared to face whatever may be happening down below. His finger touches England, and, after a moment weighing possibilities, he whispers, “Adam Young,” and hopes that is enough to find the boy.

— — —

Aziraphale reaches Earth, hovering above a small English town. He hesitates, feels the longing to return to London where he might find Crowley. However, he knows something has happened, something that affects everyone, not just Crowley. So he forces himself to turn away from the far away city and to go into Tadfield.

He probably should find a body. Being incorporeal is a terrible inconvenience; he can hardly see. But again, things are more urgent than that, and he has no time. So, concentrating hard, he manages to move, to force his consciousness through the air.

He senses nothing amiss in the town itself, but as he nears the airbase, he discovers the source of the disturbance that had reached all the way to Heaven. Adam Young, melancholy and stunned, standing quietly as his frightened and confused mortal father scolds him. Aziraphale waits nearby, relieved beyond measure that this small child hasn’t destroyed the world. He wonders what convinced him not to.

Adam notices him, though no one else seems to. Once his father finishes his speech, climbing into the car and ordering Adam to do so as well, Aziraphale approaches. Time seems to slow, a soft ripple around just the two of them, which Aziraphale recognizes as Adam’s doing. In that space, Aziraphale finds he can see.

“Hello,” Adam says.

“Hello,” Aziraphale echoes. “Thank you for…” He gestures at the bubble of slowed time around them. “I wonder, could we speak a moment?”

“S’pose,” Adam says, then tilts his head as he regards Aziraphale. “You’re like that other man,” he muses. “Something’s different about you two.”

Aziraphale wants to ask about “that other man,” but he knows he has to get to the bottom of the business of Armageddon first. “Adam, what happened?”

“Didn’t wanna do what they wanted me to do, I guess,” Adam says with a one-shoulder shrug. “Seems like it’d be a waste, getting rid of the world and all the people ’n whales ’n all.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. If he had corporal shoulders, they’d slump in relief. “Jolly good.”

Adam nods, eyeing him. “Beg your pardon, but... why’re you a ghost?”

“Oh, I’m not a ghost, I assure you. I was rather rudely discorporated earlier, and I’ve not had time to find a body.”

“I, erm, might be able to, you know, do something.” Adam stares, eyes narrowing in concentration.

Before Aziraphale realizes what’s happened, he’s back, fully back. He has his body again, and he laughs in delight.

“Oh, thank you!”

Adam smiles, but it’s a strained expression. Aziraphale pays it no heed and presses on. “You mentioned another man, like me. Did he have dark sunglasses? Red hair?”

Adam nods.

“Excellent! Where has he gone?”

“Dunno. Didn’t notice. Sorry,” he grimaces.

“It’s all right,” Aziraphale says. “I’m sure I’ll find him.”

He turns and begins to leave. But Adam calls after him, “Wait.”

Aziraphale turns to see genuine, potent fear in the boy’s eyes. “Is this...” He gestures to himself and the world at large. “Am I gonna have to... do what they want, again?”

“No,” Aziraphale murmurs. “You’ve given it up, Adam.”

He nods. “Cast it out. Yeah, guess so.”

Aziraphale wonders where he picked up that phrase.

“Your abilities are fading,” he elaborates. Now, it all having come so close to ending, he can sense Adam’s powers, and how they are diminishing with each breath he takes. “I suspect they’ll be gone within hours.”

“So... so I have time?” Adam asks. “To change things, to... to fix them how they were before?”

Aziraphale nods, smiling now. “Yes, if that’s what you want.”

Adam looks down at his hands, as if he expects them to be glowing or something. “Okay. Thanks.”

Aziraphale pats his shoulder and turns on his heel. Time resumes its normal pace, and he sighs. He feels light, lighter than he has for at least eleven years. Armageddon is not coming after all.

Now, all he must do is find Crowley. They will need to make a plan in the event Heaven and Hell come after them for their less-than-loyal behavior. He smiles; with the two of them, as a team, he doubts it will be a problem.

As the Youngs’ car pulls away, and Aziraphale prepares to leave, he hears an odd sputtering noise and turns. A strange little motorbike appears at the edge of the tarmac, making sounds that even Aziraphale knows it shouldn’t be.

A man leaps off—is that Sergeant Shadwell?—and dashes toward the small crowd still gathered on the pavement. He seems to be calling for someone named “Private Pulsifer.” Aziraphale frowns, watching him and the woman with him, then shakes himself. He doesn’t know what that’s about, but he finds himself not caring. He needs to find Crowley, make sure he’s safe, particularly considering he came here and spoke to Adam. Surely Hell will not approve of that.

So Aziraphale unfurls his wings and takes to the sky, turning back toward London.

— — —

Crowley does not leave the planet right away. He makes a pit stop in his flat, one intense driving need nagging at him. He locates the tartan thermos and picks it up. A memento, a proper one this time, though his associated recollection is far from nice.

Still, he holds this in his hands and thinks of Aziraphale, and that is good enough for him.

The thermos is empty now, of course. Its contents are still spilled across the floor. Crowley leaves the mess and takes off again. Empty, he muses, is probably for the best. There’s room inside now to put his pain, his grief, his love, so they might not haunt him anymore.

And so he makes for his original refuge, the stars.

— — —

The journey back to London takes far longer than Aziraphale would have liked, even flying. Leaving the airbase, he had seen the burnt remnants of what had unmistakably once been a vintage Bentley. It had been empty, thank goodness, but Aziraphale still fears to discover what state Crowley might be in. What happened to cause Crowley’s most beloved possession to burn?

Aziraphale frets the entire trip, his worry only intensifying when he sees the singed, ashen band of road surrounding the city. Some awful demonic interference was responsible, he is sure—though to what end, he has no idea. Perhaps it had simply been a part of the chaos caused by the build-up to Armageddon.

And perhaps it was what had destroyed the Bentley.

Aziraphale only hopes Crowley isn’t in such a bad way.

He reaches the flat in Mayfair, miracling the window open so he can fly straight inside rather than dealing with the doors, or with elevators.

“Crowley?” he calls, wings flaring out as he skids to a stop on the smooth floor in the main room. “Crowley, my dear, I—”

There’s no one in the flat, he can tell. And something about the place feels… wrong. Not simply because this is the home of a demon, but… something destructive is here.

Aziraphale looks around, and finds what he is looking for within seconds. The pool of water—of _holy_ water—is spilled across the floor, rancid and terrible now with the scent of dissolved demon.

“No!” he cries, and he drops to his knees next to the puddle. “N—no, please, no.”

Tears fill his eyes, then overflow. This is his fault, all his fault. There would have been no way for the demons to have done this, if Aziraphale himself hadn’t given Crowley the holy water. Beelzebub and the others must have realized that Crowley had been at the airbase and spoken to Adam, and come to punish him. They must have… destroyed him.

“No,” he repeats, but this time, it’s frantic denial rather than shocked disbelief. Crowley’s clever, so surely he would have survived whatever this encounter had been. Maybe someone else was killed, not Crowley. Yes, surely that is the case. Surely Crowley isn’t gone.

Aziraphale stands, swipes a hand across his eyes, and leaves. He searches everywhere he can think of, everywhere Crowley has expressed even a passing fondness for.

He visits the Globe, interrupting the rehearsals for _Much Ado_ and leaving irked thespians in his wake. But Crowley isn’t there.

He dashes through St. James Park, scattering joggers and waterfowl. But he catches no sight of that distinct red and black figure.

He tries the London Zoo, remembering how much Crowley had laughed when he’d noticed how odd the snakes behaved around him, frightening the humans with their sudden lifted heads and agitation. But the snakes are calm and sleepy, no demonic, reptilian presence rousing them.

Aziraphale expands his search beyond London, trekking to Glasgow and Rome, Kyoto and Rio de Janeiro, Nairobi and Amsterdam, any place Crowley’s been and all the places he wanted to go. But Crowley is in none of these places; there is no sign of him anywhere.

By the time Aziraphale returns to London, staggering to the bookshop, he feels that all hope has drained from him. If Crowley is still on Earth, he is somewhere Aziraphale does not know to check. Of course, there is the possibility that Crowley is _not_ on Earth. But surely, surely, he would not have left without Aziraphale? Not after asking him—begging him, in fact—more than once to run away with him. No, he wouldn’t leave this planet alone.

At least, not by choice. There is always the chance the demons found him. If that is the case, Aziraphale shudders to imagine what he might be facing, down in Hell. Worse, he abruptly thinks, what if the _angels_ have taken him?

He refuses to think about the holy water anymore. He refuses to think that Crowley might not be anywhere.

Of course, when considering not thinking about something, it becomes that much more difficult to do so. And so the thoughts, fears, concerns, swell up again like a tsunami. Aziraphale slumps into his favorite armchair, utterly drained and lost. His worry for Crowley is becoming overwhelming, stealing the breath from his lungs and the hope from his soul. Frantic for something to ground him, he casts about for something to distract him.

Unfortunately, his gaze lands on the sofa where, what feels like yesterday, Crowley had sat and convinced Aziraphale to help him raise Warlock Dowling.

The tears come without warning, though after the day he’s had, they’re hardly a shock either. Aziraphale collapses forward, face in his hands, shoulders shaking for all that he’s lost.

— — —

From Earth, Alpha Centauri looks like one star, but it’s two. Well, three, but little Alpha Centauri C is a bit off on its own. The other two are the really interesting ones, an experiment when God had been playing planetary marbles, seeing how the spheres interact and spin about each other.

Alpha Centauri A and B orbit one another, a unit, inseparable.

At least, as far as Crowley understands. The mathematics are a bit beyond him, if he’s honest. From what he can tell, while he floats in the nothingness of space, these two suns drift in tandem around the same point.

He wonders what might happen if one of those suns were torn away. His eyes land upon the larger, paler one, and imagines it vanishing. Imagines the smaller, redder sphere hovering alone and lost. Imagines it traveling far away, unmoored from the familiar. Imagines it finally going supernova from the loss.

These thoughts might be fanciful and unscientific, but Crowley can’t bring himself to care. He’s watched the world be saved, even while he witnessed _his_ world burn. He’s allowed to be fanciful.

Still, he shouldn’t have come here, to this place he’d wanted to visit with Aziraphale. It’s making him all melancholy and foolish, when he had come to space to escape all that. To escape feeling.

He turns, stretching his wings, looking around with eyes that see beyond a human’s abilities. There must be another place he can find refuge, some other solar system where he can find relief from the pain that, even in his true form, still lingers deep within him. Maybe he can find an asteroid belt, or the dark side of a moon somewhere, where he can hide.

He departs, leaving Alpha Centauri A and B to their blissful binary dance.

— — —

A fortnight passes before Aziraphale feels as if he’s functioning mostly normally again. The past two weeks have been spent in a hazy cycle of inebriation, mourning, anger, and back again. At some point, he recalls resolving to move. He cannot bear to stay in London, not when every street and every building carries echoes of Crowley. This is the city Crowley most loved after all, even as he worked his mischievous schemes on it. In fact, those demonic tricks might have been, in a way, a way of Crowley showing his affection. Aziraphale doesn’t know; he never asked.

He should have asked so many things.

So, staying in London is right out. Not an option. An absolute impossibility.

Aziraphale has been fending off various interested parties for so long that it’s a shock for the nearest real estate agent when he gets Aziraphale’s message. Nevertheless, the deal is struck within days, and the boxes soon fill the space even as the shelves empty. Aziraphale even packs the children’s books that seem to have appeared of their own volition following near-doomsday.

Behind the final books on the final shelf—Aziraphale’s small section of astronomy volumes—he finds a note. The smooth ivory paper with its swooping gold ink is so familiar as to make him shiver, and he takes it down with care and fear, as if it’s a bomb that might go off.

The letter is from Gabriel, of course. It’s a gentler scolding than might have been expected, under the circumstances, but still full of passive aggressive scathing. Gabriel goes on about Aziraphale shirking his duty in Heaven, then escaping from his bonds. His movements are monitored now, the letter says. If he steps out of line again, he will be punished. For now, he need only wait in England for further instructions while the head office “assesses the situation.”

Aziraphale sits down at his desk and rereads the letter. He knows he should be thankful it isn’t worse; he could have been dragged back to Heaven and questioned and hurt for his insubordination. He could have Fallen, in fact. But it seems the timing of his rebellion was fortunate—in the wake of this failed Armageddon, he has gotten off with a mere warning, even if it is likely the last one he will receive.

Well, Gabriel need not worry. Aziraphale has no reason to rebel anymore. After all, Armageddon has fallen through, and no one is around to tempt him into further bad behavior.

So the next days are filled with packing and moving to the small cottage in the country, south of London. It’s just happened to have come available (if Heaven has a problem with this miracle, they say nothing). At last, Aziraphale closes the door on the movers and feels as if he’s moving on from his past. He hopes.

He turns to regard the sitting room, cramped with all the boxes and furniture from the bookshop. It shouldn’t all fit, but the cottage stretches just enough to fit it. Still, despite the crowded space he finds himself in, Aziraphale knows instinctively that something is missing. So, even knowing this will _hurt_ , he lets himself fall into a fantasy.

He might have moved here with Crowley, if things had gone right. If Aziraphale had escaped back to Earth on time and gone to sway Adam Young, if they had somehow eluded the wrath of their head offices, if they had made time to finally sit down and _talk_ about the feelings he thinks they had both been avoiding, they might have found this place. They might have boxed up the bookshop together. They might have even held hands in the Bentley on the drive down.

They might have spent evenings together, safe, drinking cocoa or wine or whiskey. They might have listened to music on the gramophone, stumbling through tispy dance steps neither really knows. Aziraphale might have learned how to cook the foods he so loves to eat. Crowley might have started a garden behind the cottage.

Aziraphale’s eyes, which had drifted closed, fly open. His hands lift to his mouth. A garden. The _plants_. All of Crowley’s lovely plants in his flat… Who will look after them now? Crowley is… was… so devoted to them. How can Aziraphale have left them behind? Surely it falls to him now, to care for them. Crowley would have wanted that.

Aziraphale is half in tears, for what feels like the hundredth time since he last saw Crowley, as he rushes back to London. He practically crashes into Crowley’s flat, stumbling into the room where the collection of plants stands, jolting in surprise.

“Darlings,” he whispers. “It’s all right now, you’re not alone. I’ve… I’ve come to take you to a new home.”

With care, he carries the plants outside to the Bentley, which is now magically repaired. Adam’s doing he suspects, even though this good deed was useless in the end. Why repair the Bentley, when Crowley is lost?

Aziraphale loads the back of the car with the plants, then climbs into the driver’s seat. “Hello,” he says, voice shaking. “I’m sorry… sorry to tell you, but your… What do you call him? Your master? That seems a bit much… Well, Crowley is… gone. So I’m going to be taking care of you now, if that’s all right.”

He places his hands on the steering wheel, anxiety rushing through him. He’s never driven an automobile, but the Bentley has been so good and so loyal to Crowley; Aziraphale can’t very well abandon her.

Tentatively, he performs a miracle. The Bentley is quite receptive—used to it, he suspects—and revs the engine, pulling into traffic with minimal work on Aziraphale’s part. Before long, they’re making their way back to the cottage, and the Vivaldi CD Aziraphale had put in has shifted into something he actually recognizes, after so long listening to Crowley’s rants.

_“This world has only one sweet moment set aside for us…”_

Aziraphale blinks away tears yet again. No, that’s enough of that. He’s had enough of weeping. Crowley is gone. Aziraphale has saved his last belongings, but not him. He needs to accept that and move on. There is much more to be done for the humans. Aziraphale still has a purpose: he is a Principality, and even after everything, he does love this messy world. He can do so much to help it along. So he will continue, waiting for Heaven’s next orders and hoping Gabriel’s plan doesn’t conflict with Hers.

 _“But touch my tears with your lips, touch my world with your fingertips…_ ”

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighs. He stops the disc and ejects it. That settles it. He will keep the Bentley in good repair, but he can’t ride in her again. He will place the plants in the garden outside and encourage them to grow, but he can’t cultivate them himself. They remind him too much of his impossible, lovely, lost demon.

And he can’t afford those reminders, can’t afford that pain. He has a purpose here on this planet, and must not abandon it.

— — —

Crowley treks far from Earth, wandering through galaxies familiar and unknown. He hopes being in his true form will be easier, hoping that escaping the human vessel for his emotions will dampen them, but to no avail. Every instant away from Earth, every millisecond he lives knowing Aziraphale does not, is agony. It’s a physical ache, which he didn’t think was possible, like this. He didn’t think this shifting, many-winged, non-human form could _hurt_ like this. Sure, he’s a demon, and thus this form isn’t comfortable, by design, but that’s on a physical level.

Emotional pain in this form—that’s new.

He travels to a nebula he knows of, but which he had no role in creating. Deep down, when he’d let himself think about the past, he knows he’s always wanted to see it. It’s a rippling, dancing band of dust and gas, a shock of gold and blue against the black nothingness between stars.

He loves it, because it is beautiful. And he hates it, because Aziraphale would have adored it.

As he hangs suspended within the nebula’s light, his grip tightens around the thermos he still carries. He’s wrapped himself around it out here, protecting it from the crush and the cold of outer space. The last thing he has of Aziraphale must be kept safe, even if Crowley had been too slow to keep Aziraphale himself that way.

He contemplates, for a moment, leaving the thermos there. This nebula has no name, being too far from Earth to have been discovered by humankind yet. He could name it after Aziraphale, could leave the thermos here as a symbol.

But then he remembers—the humans already have named an Angel Nebula. And if he left the thermos here, what would _he_ have to hold?

So he clutches the thermos tighter and lets a bit more of the nebula dust cling to him.

He’ll stay here a bit longer, he resolves, and it will hopefully be long enough for some of this ache to fade.

— — —

Eventually, though, Crowley’s longing for Earth becomes so intense as to be continually distracting. He finds himself thinking less about missing Aziraphale and more about the tiniest details of his old life—alcohol, of course, and delays on public transportation, and music, and his plants, and the Bentley, and that one Italian dessert with the funny name that Aziraphale had convinced him to try once. He even finds that, peaceful as space is, the solitude and silence is becoming oppressive.

He misses Earth, he realizes, because it’s home. Maybe he should go back for a while. See how things are going, now that Adam has rejected his destiny. The demons haven’t found him, after all, so perhaps he’ll be safe to go back and visit. If he runs into Hastur or Beelzebub or someone, he can surely talk his way out of it. He can surely come up with an explanation for why he was at the airbase.

He disentangles himself from the nebula, shaking off the dust and letting it settle back in place. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t say goodbye to it. There is a good chance he’ll be back here anyway, after his holiday to Earth.

So he turns away from the Principality Nebula, only sparing it a see-you-later wave as he begins his return journey.

— — —

Earth looks no different than when he left it. Well, technically it does. The kraken has returned to the sea, Atlantis is lost once more, and the evidence of rains of fish and burning M-25 are gone. All is as it should be, thanks to Adam.

London welcomes him back. He falls into it, lets the streets and buildings and bridges and parks embrace him like the nebula. Though they’re still rather empty comforts, he appreciates them nonetheless.

For nearly a full day, he wanders and acquaints himself with this city. He’s been gone longer than he realized; winter has come and London is drenched in gray. He wonders if it’s been months, or years. Time passing in space feels different, it seems.

Before the day ends, his feet have carried him to Soho, because of course they have. Muscle memory, even after so long out of his human form, is a powerful thing. Or perhaps it was simply a subconscious desire, because now that he thinks about it, he _does_ want to see the bookshop. It’ll probably destroy him, but when has he ever cared about that before? He walked on consecrated ground during a war for someone who would reject him a few years later.

So he strides down the familiar street and turns to the corner to face the bookshop.

He stops. Long moments pass before the sight before him fully computes.

The bookshop is a restaurant.

Perhaps Adam did this? Or maybe when it burned, it was discovered to be abandoned, then turned into this? But how could this have happened in only a few months? Irrational anxiety jolts him—how long has he been away?

He wishes he had his phone, so he could check the time, the date. But he’s lost that, probably in the Bentley. He doesn’t have his sunglasses anymore, either; no wonder no one has interacted with him for more than a few seconds, spotting him in the streets and edging around him. He’d thought it was only because of his general demeanor.

He moves closer to the bookshop-turned-restaurant, eyeing the menu in the window with a critical eye. Italian food.

Affogato, that’s it. The memory of Aziraphale’s lips wrapped around a spoon comes back to him, and the despair crashes back in.

Oh, screw what month it is, he thinks. He’s held his grief at bay all day, for the most part, but now, faced with this, he can’t do it anymore. Aziraphale is gone, so fuck affogato and fuck the Earth and… fuck.

He turns on his heel, unfurls his wings, and takes off. Who cares who sees?

He flies with abandon for a while, only knowing he needs to get out of London, get out of England, get off of Earth. Coming here was a terrible idea; he should have known there was nothing of value left on this bloody stupid planet. But he gets caught in a thunderhead at one point, because of course he does. He lets it fling and batter him about for several minutes, until he can’t bear it anymore and drops to a lower altitude, gasping and drenched.

He sinks to the ground, the storm cloud now a mile or so away, rumbling ominously. Barren rock and sparse grasses stretch out around him, though the landscape abruptly ends in a sheer cliff. Beyond, the waves crash. The southern coast of England, he realizes. It would be beautiful, in a desolate way, were it not for his own turmoil.

He would love it, if he could. But he hates it, because Aziraphale would have adored this, too.

He makes his way to the stony cliff, staring across the water. His feathers ripple in the biting breeze, but he doesn’t feel it now. He feels nothing other than his heartache, but, exasperated with himself, he shoves that away.

Right, then. He’s been here, had his visit. Time to go. No need to dwell on the past. He’s lost the only one who’s ever seen true value in him, fled his responsibilities, and now just needs to find a way to _shut off his stupid emotions already_.

He extends his wings a bit more, planning to return to the nebula, as the wind shifts direction. As if it wants to push him off the cliff and into the air, wants him to soar away from all this.

And then, he catches a scent on the air, and is transported.

_It’s a new cologne. My barber suggested—_

_I know what you smell like._

“Angel.” His voice is hoarse. He hasn’t spoken since he held Adam Young’s hand; he’s almost forgotten how. But now, here, with that aroma of bergamot and divinity, his lips have moved of their own accord.

He turns into the wind, closes his eyes, and inhales. This is a dream; no other explanation is reasonable. Or perhaps, God has taken pity on him, and he’s somehow transcended the universe and found a plane of existence where there can be some comfort for him.

Some distance away stands a building, which he hadn’t seen before. A cottage, really. Small and clearly old, but cozy and safe.

Crowley starts forward, feet slipping a little on the frozen, frosty ground. His feet catch on an exposed root and he stumbles. The wind picks up, and the smell washes over him again, snatching his breath away.

If this is a dream, he will be content, even if he never reaches that cottage. If this is a dream, he will be content simply to soak in this scent, to embrace this ghost of the one he loves, forever.

The cottage door swings open, and that’s when Crowley knows. He staggers to a halt, staring. This cannot be a dream; his imagination would never be this cruel, would it? Because he has never seen Aziraphale look so distraught, so broken, so shocked as he stares at Crowley.

 _It might not truly be Aziraphale_ , a sly part of his mind says in the same sinister tone he once mustered in a very particular garden.

 _Shut up_ , Crowley replies.

But the figure who might be Aziraphale steps outside, with no jacket, no coat. That sight, the knowledge that it’s too cold to be out without protection, spurs Crowley forward. He trips again, falls, and tries to scramble back up. But his limbs are shaking, and he suddenly can’t move, overwhelmed. The wind whistles in his ears, tugs at his wings, which he tucks to his sides to protect them.

Then, hands touch his shoulders. Knees hit the ground before him. A voice sounds in his ear, the most sublime sound he’s ever heard.

“Crowley? My dearest?”

His own hands rise and grasp at a soft, worn vest. He meets wide, familiar eyes, which are swimming with tears. “Are you real?” he croaks.

Aziraphale exhales, shaking and stunned. “I am, yes, yes.” His fingers clench on Crowley’s shoulders, slide down his arms. “Crowley… Is it really you?”

Crowley nods, frantic and unmoored. “Angel.”

The tears spill over onto Aziraphale’s cheeks. His hand clenches in Crowley’s hair, almost hard enough to hurt, almost enough to ground him here. “I thought you were dead,” he whispers. “I… the holy water… I thought they came for you, after…”

“I thought… the bookshop… the fire,” Crowley gasps. Is he crying too? He can’t tell; the wind and the cold and the soul-deep tremble have taken root within him and have made it impossible to notice such mundane things.

They remain in this bruising caress, even as the hurried, quavering explanations spill off their lips. Crowley can’t find a place to rest his hands—rather, they flutter from one place on Aziraphale to the next. Shoulders, arms, hands, chest, hips. Each part solid and real, alive and glorious. By the time they finish speaking, the storm has rolled in. Flecks of sleet drop to the ground, but neither of them move yet.

“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale says. Crowley brushes at the wet streaks on Aziraphale’s face, his fascinating, much-missed, beloved face.

“I lost you,” Crowley whispers, his voice mingling with the wind between them. “I lost you, Angel, and it tore me apart.”

“I’m here,” Aziraphale says. His fingers are still in Crowley’s hair, brushing through it as if it is—as if _he_ is—something miraculous.

“Yeah,” Crowley laughs. He shakes; he cannot remember when he last laughed, or smiled, or felt anything other than sorrow and nothingness. “Yeah, you are. And so am I.” He laughs again, a giddy and disbelieving thing. “We’re here.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeats. He sounds as if he has craved saying the name, has craved the taste of it on his lips.

“We’re here,” Crowley goes on, “but I think if I stay here much longer, I’m going to be frozen to you.”

Aziraphale lights up, his smile changing the entire landscape of his face into something extraordinary. “Come inside then. Come home with me.”

Crowley nods, swipes his hand across his eyes, and lets Aziraphale help him stand. Their fingers intertwine; Aziraphale clutches tight, as if terrified that if he doesn’t keep in contact then Crowley will vanish. They move across the slick ground, through the icy sleet, and into the warmth of the cottage. Aziraphale stomps the frost off his shoes on the rug just inside the door, and Crowley ruffles his wings.

“My dear, these are looking rather ragged,” Aziraphale frets. He strokes through the primaries, smoothing out some the crooked ones. “You haven’t been taking care of yourself.”

Crowley swallows and says nothing; he doesn’t want to lie and say he has. Aziraphale tuts and pulls him further into the cottage. Crowley glances around. He recognizes the furniture from the bookshop, even spots some familiar books. Apparently Aziraphale has relocated here willingly, not been dragged away from home by Heaven.

“Ah, yes, I…” Aziraphale has spotted his scrutiny. “Well, after I thought I lost you, I… staying in London was… too much.”

He doesn’t elaborate, but Crowley doesn’t need him to. Instead, he snaps his fingers, causes a fire to burst to life in the fireplace, and causes them both to dry off instantly. Aziraphale beams at him, even if it’s a rather watery look.

“Sit with me?” Crowley asks, and Aziraphale nods.

They lower themselves to the rug before the fire, and Aziraphale busies himself with smoothing out Crowley’s feathers. It’s relaxing, like a massage, and Crowley leans into the touch.

“Feels good, Angel,” he says with a sigh.

Aziraphale’s fingers pause, as if realizing what he’s doing. “I suppose I should have asked,” he says. “This is all right, isn’t it?”

Crowley chuckles. “Would I have let you do it if it wasn’t?” He glances at Aziraphale over his shoulder. “’S fine, Aziraphale. I… I missed you.”

Aziraphale’s voice quavers. “And I you, dearest.”

They end up talking for nearly an hour while Aziraphale works—though really, he’s finished in under fifteen minutes, but both enjoy the touches. Crowley explains what happened the day Armageddon should have happened, where he’s been since, and how much he’s been hurting. Aziraphale in turn tells him the same, and how he’s still working for Heaven, at least for now.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he admits. “You were gone, and the world was still turning, so… I carried on.”

Crowley puts his wings away and spins about to face Aziraphale again. Their hands find each other’s, seemingly of their own volition. Crowley finds himself smiling. “I’m back now,” he says, then thinks what a stupidly obvious thing that was to say.

“So you are,” Aziraphale says with a smile, but his expression shifts to worried in an instant. “You aren’t going to leave again, are you? I mean, surely Hell will want a word with you, and I’m sure they aren’t happy about your conversation with Adam, and what you did to Ligur, and—”

“Hey, hey,” Crowley says, mustering a soothing tone. “Angel, slow down. We’ll figure it out. I’ve made it this long without my bosses finding me, haven’t I? I reckon I’ve got some time to make a plan. We’ve got time. And… yeah, I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here.”

Aziraphale’s eyes are still wide with fear, but he nods and allows Crowley to pull him into a hug. Before Armageddon, Crowley would have balked at this behavior, but now, he doesn’t care. Then, Crowley didn’t know what it would feel like to almost lose this angel, so what does his past self’s opinion matter? Crowley will do what he wants now.

Aziraphale is shaking again, possibly crying, and Crowley tightens his grip. “Angel.”

“I’m sorry,” he replies—yes, he’s definitely crying. “I… I keep thinking about how much time we wasted. I didn’t even realize until I thought you were dead, but I… there’s so much I should have said.”

“Like what?” Crowley’s not sure he wants the answer, not sure he wants to hear the pained regrets he’s been thinking all this time echoed back to him. But if Aziraphale wants to tell him, how can Crowley deny him?

“Like how much I love you.” Aziraphale sniffs, then pulls back far enough to look into Crowley’s eyes. “I should have told you that long ago.”

Fuck, now Crowley’s the one fighting tears. “Aziraphale,” he says, laughing, “you’re such an idiot. You think I didn’t know how you felt? I knew, of course I did, it pours off you like water off… off whatever. And I… I love you back, and… and if you weren’t aware of that, you’re an even bigger moron than I imagined.”

Aziraphale laughs and wipes at his eyes, and Crowley puts his hands on his hips and rests their foreheads together.

“I did know,” Aziraphale says. “I can see it in everything you do for me, dearest.”

Crowley smiles, but he has just about reached his emotional limit. “I’m glad you’re alive, Angel,” he says anyway.

Aziraphale leans back and cradles Crowley’s jaw. “I hardly knew what to do with myself, thinking you were dead.” He sighs. “You look exhausted.”

“I am,” he admits with a chuckle. “Have you got a bed in this place I could borrow?”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says, “you can have it. If you’d like. I mean… please stay.”

“Hell yes.”

— — —

In the morning, Aziraphale finds himself restless. He and Crowley had stayed in front of the fire for a bit longer, hardly able to even consider letting each other go. Eventually, though, Crowley had practically fallen asleep in Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale had to carry him to bed, where he is still sleeping now, oblivious to everything around him.

Aziraphale, though, didn’t sleep, instead staring at Crowley for nearly an hour, stunned by his presence. He then whiled away the rest of the night trying to read, but instead reliving their reunion.

He’d never dreamed he’d see Crowley again, but when he had glanced out the window to see the storm’s progress and instead spotted a red-haired, black-winged figure, he had been stunned. His mind couldn’t be so cruel as to conjure a hallucination of his most desperate desire, could it? So he’d stumbled outside, holding his breath.

Only when he had felt Crowley touch him could he breathe again.

Now, Aziraphale stands from where he’d curled up in an armchair and heads to the kitchen. The tea has nearly finished steeping when he hears an alarming crash from the bedroom.

“Aziraphale?” comes a cry.

Aziraphale rushes back into the bedroom, where he finds Crowley tangled up in the sheets and having apparently toppled to the floor.

“Darling?” Aziraphale asks. “What on earth—?”

“Oh,” Crowley says, sounding relieved. “Sorry, I…” He sits up, eyes bleary and hair a fiery disaster. “I didn’t know where you were…”

Aziraphale softens at that and kneels before him. “I’m sorry. I meant to be here when you woke, but I also thought you’d like some tea as well.”

Crowley, blushing now, lets Aziraphale help him disentangle himself and stand. The night before, Aziraphale had lent him pajamas in blue and cream tartan, which Crowley has miracled to black satin, of course. He looks soft and endearing, and Aziraphale can’t help but pull him into an embrace.

“Good morning,” he says.

Crowley hums, burying his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale can feel the anxiety and embarrassment seeping out of him again, and so he tugs him out of the bedroom into the kitchen, where the tea is waiting. As Aziraphale pours the cream and sugar, he notices Crowley examining the room, then moving to gaze out the window.

“Aziraphale…” he asks, “are these… mine?”

He’s examining the plants that occupy the garden. They’ve flourished here, growing well in the invigorating presence of an angel, even if said angel didn’t actively do much for them. Aziraphale smiles, though the memory of how he obtained them is still, to this day, bittersweet. “Yes, they are. I took them after Armageddon, after I couldn’t find you.”

Crowley seems astounded, and Aziraphale continues. “And the Bentley’s all right too.”

His eyes meet Aziraphale’s. “Really? Where is she?”

“In the shed outside. A nice shed,” he adds hurriedly, before Crowley can think he hasn’t been treating his beloved vehicle right.

But Crowley doesn’t even balk at the lackluster description of the Bentley’s new home; he mostly looks like he’s trying not to grin. “You’ve been taking care of them?”

Aziraphale nods, and Crowley comes to him, taking his hands. “Thank you.”

“I’d like to take care of you now, too,” Aziraphale says, “if that’s all right.”

Crowley’s grip tightens. “If you’ll let me return the favor.”

“Oh, I’ve been fine,” Aziraphale says, trying to believe it. He has told himself every day since Armageddon that he has been fine, even as it tasted of a lie. Now, though, he wants it to be true, wants to be fine, with Crowley.

“Aww, come on,” Crowley says. “We both know our Arrangement has always worked in both directions.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Oh, dearest—”

He’s going to continue, going to lavish endearments and assurances on Crowley until they’re both flustered and blushing and giggling, but Crowley suddenly freezes, stiff and tense in Aziraphale’s arms. His eyes, gone wide, are fixed over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“What is it?” Aziraphale asks.

“Beelzebub’s here.”

— — —

Crowley has miracled himself into clothes, and now shrugs on his coat. But before he can get his other arm into it, Aziraphale grabs at him, again.

“Crowley!” he says, frantic. “You can’t go out there!”

“Yeah, you’ve said that,” Crowley says. “I’m still not listening.” He glances down at himself, glad for his usual tight jeans and various shades of black. Something is still missing, though, and he needs his full armor to face the Lord of Hell, so he snaps his fingers and summons a new pair of sunglasses. Then, he extricates himself from Aziraphale’s grasp and makes for the door.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeats. He darts around him and presses himself to the door, in a desperate attempt to keep Crowley inside. “Don’t do this.”

Crowley exhales, frustration and anxiety grappling for supremacy inside him. “What else am I supposed to do?” he hisses. “It’s _Beelzebub_. They’re not going to let this go, it’s not a social visit!”

“But they’re surely here about… you know, Armageddon.” Aziraphale whispers the last word, as if uttering it any louder might summon more demons. “You said they saw you there with Adam.”

“Yeah, and obviously they’ve come to confront me about it.” Crowley crosses his arms, tempted to miracle the door away and sprint out before Aziraphale can react. Something tells him, however, that Aziraphale will anticipate this. “I need to face this, and the less time Beelzebub has to wait, the better, I think.”

Aziraphale swallows, lips pressed together in a thin, terrified line. “They’re going to punish you.”

“Yeah, probably,” Crowley admits, trying to sound flippant. It’s easier than panicking about it, after all. “So if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get that over with…”

He reaches for the doorknob behind Aziraphale, but Aziraphale seizes his wrist. “Please,” he breathes, and now his voice is teary, and the sound of it is a gutshot. “Please, Crowley, don’t go out there. I… I can’t lose you again.”

Crowley holds his gaze, twisted and warped inside. “You’re not going to lose me,” he vows, hoping he doesn’t break this promise. “I’m yours, always. I’ll be back in a tick, Angel, you’ll see.”

He kisses Aziraphale’s forehead, and in the split second that that makes Aziraphale melt, Crowley spins him around and opens the door.

He knows Aziraphale won’t follow him, not when there’s a chance Beelzebub could spot him. Crowley forces himself not to look back, not to seek one more glimpse of downy hair and tartan, not to meet starlight-bright eyes for perhaps the last time.

Beelzebub stands a few feet from the edge of the cliff, looking out across the sea. Crowley approaches, marveling that he’d been here, despairing, less than a day before. Now, he wonders if he could shove Beelzebub off and flee, but dismisses the idea. It would only delay his punishment.

“Wotcher, Lord Beelzebub,” he says, somehow summoning some of his usual bravado. “What’s up?”

“Crowley,” Beelzebub says, in that humming, nasal voice Crowley’s always cringed at. “Where have you been?”

Crowley resists the urge to fidget. “I…” He gropes for a reasonable excuse, but before he can—

“You failed to report for duty during Armageddon.”

Wait, what?

“I trust you have a good reason?” Beelzebub raises an eyebrow. The last word is packed with extra buzzing sibilance, and it makes Crowley nervous. Is this a test? Or is Beelzebub seriously this confused somehow? He doesn’t know what wires have been crossed, but he figures he better go with it until he can suss out what’s going on.

“Well, er... y’know, to be fair, it was happening pretty quickly. By the time I could get going, it seemed like things were well underway.” He pauses, swallows, and considers how to pretend at confusion. “What, er, what happened?”

Beelzebub’s scowl intensifies, which is not a flattering look. “There was a… miscommunication between us and the Antichrist. For now, Armageddon is… indefinitely postponed. We’re regrouping.”

“Ah.” Crowley shifts and shoves his hands in his pockets for something to do. “So… Am I being reassigned?”

“Not at the moment. Your work on the M-25 went well, sowed plenty of chaos and damage”—the compliment sounds as though it causes Beelzebub physical pain, if the discordant hiss in their voice is anything to go by—“and we want you to stay in England for the time being.” Their beady eyes flash toward the cottage; Crowley represses his instinctual desire to step in their line of sight to protect Aziraphale. “Is this your residence now?”

“Oh, erm… yeah, thought this was more low profile. That okay?”

They shrug. “We’ll relay any further instructions here, then. But Crowley,” they continue, voice dropping to a threatening drone, “next time you’re summoned to help the war effort, I expect you there.” The implication—no second chances—is clear.

“Yes,” Crowley croaks. “Of course. Won’t happen again.”

“Good,” Beelzebub says, and turns to go.

Crowley watches them walk away, senses the portal opening in the stone and wintry grass, and leaps forward. “Hang on.”

Beelzebub turns, frustrated and disinterested. “What.”

“Er… Sorry, just, when did I see you last?”

“When you reported about the Antichrist. Couple years ago. Why?” Beelzebub sounds a million dimensions away already, considering the next task, bored of Crowley’s presence.

“Nothing,” Crowley blurts. “Never mind. Sorry. I guess this Armageddon business has got me a little discombob—”

But Beelzebub is gone before he can finish the word, the brimstone scent and otherworldly chill already fading. Crowley blinks, and then makes his way back to the cottage, almost numb in his bewilderment.

He opens the door to find Aziraphale on the other side, wringing his hands. “Well,” Crowley says, “that was… a thing.”

“What happened?” Aziraphale falls into him, one hand on his side and the other on his cheek. “Are you all right?”

“I… Well, I’m not in trouble,” he says, “but I have no idea how…”

Yet when he says it, it becomes untrue. He remembers now. “Oh,” he says. “Of course. I didn’t realize…”

“Realize what?” Aziraphale asks, still clinging to him, still looking him over as if to reassure himself that Crowley is in one piece. Crowley lets him, even as he guides them both into the main room and onto the couch.

“Adam,” Crowley says. “I think he must have done this. I mentioned to him that I was going to be in deep shit… Not that I used those words around a kid, mind you… And… well, he must have erased their memories of anything I did that day.”

“Even what you did to Ligur?” Aziraphale asks.

“Guess so, since Beelzebub didn’t mention him.”

Aziraphale exhales slowly, though his brow is still furrowed. “So we’re safe, then.”

“Hope so,” Crowley says. “At least until Heaven and Hell get their shit together again, whenever that will be. Of course, I think next time it’ll be all of us against all of them.”

“Against humans?” Aziraphale raises his eyebrows.

Crowley shrugs. “Wouldn’t be surprised.”

Aziraphale doesn’t look encouraged by this, and Crowley puts his arm around him and squeezes. “Point is, we’ve got a reprieve for a while.”

“I don’t understand how my side could go against the humans, though,” Aziraphale frets. “We were told to love them…”

Crowley considers his answer in the silence that falls between them. “We don’t have a side anymore, neither of us,” he finally says.

Aziraphale leans into him. “No,” he murmurs. “I suppose not.”

They don’t speak for a while. Crowley can’t help thinking that even if they don’t have a side anymore, and even if they don’t know what they will do if their old head offices decide to go to war again, they have each other. They are safe for now.

That’s enough.

— — —

It’s a nice morning. All the past seven days have been nice, in fact.

Crowley is taking to country living more readily than Aziraphale expected. Apparently reveling in the narrow escape from Beelzebub, courtesy of the Antichrist himself, he spends his days wrangling the plants. (It seems Aziraphale’s laissez-faire method was not up to snuff.)

He also has taken the Bentley out of the shed, cleaned every inch, then coaxed Aziraphale out for an enthusiastic drive to the coast and back. The Bentley, delighted to have Crowley back, had first insisted on blaring Queen’s “You’re My Best Friend” before allowing Crowley to pick the music. The best part—or perhaps the only good part, considering how many traffic laws are broken—is that Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand.

Aziraphale has spent his days cleaning up the cottage, making space for Crowley to put any possessions he might decide to retrieve from London. And indeed, records and clothes and sunglasses soon begin to appear throughout the place—Aziraphale delights at the sight of them alongside the books and teacups and tartan blankets.

The wintry storm that had arrived with Crowley has passed, and sunshine beats down, glinting off the ocean. However, it’s still cold, so Aziraphale spends his time curled up on the couch. Crowley slinks over to sit next to him more often than not, citing his cold-bloodedness, and insinuating himself next to Aziraphale.

Some afternoons, they plan—not for how to avert the end of the world, but how to enjoy the world. Trips to Scotland, to South America, to New Zealand are suggested, simply because they _can_ go now. Crowley also mentions, tentative and blushing for some reason, that he’d like to take Aziraphale to a certain nebula someday.

Some evenings, they stumble through dances in the kitchen, giggling. 

Some nights, they talk, finally admitting things thus far unsaid. They curl against each other, drinking tea and cocoa and whiskey and wine as their moods dictate.

They are content.

On the seventh morning, clouds are rolling in again, promising a steady shower all day. Aziraphale anticipates spending it under a blanket, with a book and warm drink. He sighs, soaking in the sense of serenity the idea brings.

His happiness only intensifies when he hears Crowley approaching, and he turns. Crowley appears, yawning sleepily. But his eyes are bright, and he is here and whole, and he lets Aziraphale wrap him up close.

Aziraphale smiles up at him, and Crowley returns it. “Good morning, my dearest.”

“Good morning, Angel,” Crowley says.

They go through the routine of making breakfast together. It’s easy, moving around the kitchen, around each other, as if they’ve done it for years—as they will do for all the years to come. Once the tea is steeped and the scones are covered in butter and jam, Aziraphale turns to Crowley again. He’s struck by a sudden impulse, and lifts his cup.

“To the world,” he murmurs.

Crowley meets his gaze, and a soft look comes into his eyes, as if a thousand words of devotion and adoration rest on the edge of his lips.

“To the world,” Crowley echoes.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so I have come up with an excuse for this. This is all an elaborate ruse to fix the M-25 scene because someone who worked on the show chose the WRONG QUEEN SONG and this is me re-aligning the universe.
> 
> As always, thanks to elizabethelizabeth for beta reading and reassuring me that my writing matters. This probably wouldn't have been finished without you.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
